


Determination

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-08
Updated: 2005-11-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 08:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10805391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Back and forth. Back and forth. I rock myself as hard as I can, bashing my body against the sturdy oak doors of my prison. It hurts badly; every time I slam my body against the doors, splinters break off into my already bruised and scratched skin. But back and forth, back and forth, I will rock. Every time I smash into the doors, they weaken slightly. And every weak crack spiderwebbing against the doors is one step closer to freedom.Four girls are held hostage by Death Eater. But they have a plan.





	Determination

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Back and forth. Back and forth. I rock my body as hard as I can, bashing my body against the sturdy oak doors of my prison. It hurts badly; every time I slam my body against the doors, splinters break off into my already bruised and scratched skin. Thin trickles of blood creep down my arms and sides, matching the dried lines from earlier. But back and forth, back and forth, I will rock. Every time I smash into the doors, they weaken slightly. And every weak crack spiderwebbing against the doors is one step closer to freedom.

My cell is small, rough, and cold. There's a wooden slat on the floor as my bed, when I've been tossed in here after a long day of 'work.' That's what they call raping me - my work. I'm a pureblood, and the Death Eaters like to have their... jollies with the rebellious purebloods. They call it 'putting me in my place.'

And I tell them it's a bunch of gaseous old coots taking advantage of a young girl because a real woman would never have them. That landed me with the cat o' nine tails and two weeks in solitary, with nothing but mouldy pie crust and brackish water to drink. I am thin as a rail. They paint me with cheap cosmetics and shove me into ragged school uniforms, tying my hair into childish pigtails. They try to make me a little, docile doll. But I am not done yet.

They think me pliant, now. They think me broken, scared. I am anything but. Oh, I am afraid, but there are things that must be done. The only way to truly test someone's mettle is to put them under stress.

Godric Gryffindor would be proud. I may be small, but size gives no credence to strength.

I am not the brightest of the bunch. But I am daring, sometimes. I know their fears, as well as my own. And I'm prone to snooping; I know where their stash of money is, as well as where they keep the wands. I don't know how I'm going to get it at, but I will. The Gods above me, I will leave this place, and if I can, I will pull it into the ground after me.

I am a Gryffindor. My name is Lavender Brown, and I will fight my way through this.

++++

My hand is sore from writing all day. I suppose I should be happy; I'm not strapped to a bed somewhere, being felt up by a grotty old man. But my days are filled with boring figures, complicated Arithmancy charts, and the highly annoying buzz of corrupt bastards in love with their own legend, boring me with tales of their adventures with the Aurors. Pitiful.

They keep me locked up in this dusty room. They try to keep tabs on the future, having me decipher possible events in the future; they try to give themselves the best possible chance. They know I'm smart enough to not get myself in trouble.

But I'm also intelligent enough to know that I can alter the future, should I choose to. And I do.

I'm only a child, in their eyes, and perhaps I am. Children are naive, and afraid, and will do as their betters tell them to do.

But children are also fearless, and are willing to jump off of buildings to see if they can fly. Soon, we'll be jumping as well. Only we're a little more prepared.

I scramble their Arithmancy charts I have prepared, leaving things out and adding figures that will never come into play. I watch them; I know their routines. From their severely embellished and grandiose tales, I have gleaned their habits, their personal rituals. I know who favours what spells, what tactics, as well as I know myself. I pit them against those who are the most likely to defeat them. They underestimate us, we four who are locked here, and we will defeat them through it.

I do credit to Roweena Ravenclaw and my house. Bravery without intelligence is foolhardy, but together, we will burn this dark future into ashes.

So I leave their futures hanging on a precipice of doom, and let them think I'm not sharp enough to realise how easily I could manipulate them. I am a child, and a child will take risks. I have scrambled their futures - they practically handed their eventual defeat to me. For not only have I messed with their charts, they've put all their hopes in the hands of one who will laugh and dance on their graves. They have handed me themselves. It takes all my will not to laugh in their face.

We've already won half the battle. 

I am a Ravenclaw. My name is Padma Patil, and I will think my way through this.

 

++++

My fingers are bleeding. I've been scrubbing floors all day. That's all they think I'm good for; I am a hard worker, if nothing else.

I spend all my waking hours, save a hasty meal (or two, if I'm lucky) cleaning. The floors of my prison are sparkling clean; you could eat off of it. The drapes are dust-free, the tables polished to a bright shine. Where I go, grime vanishes. I am sent all over the castle on any Death Eaters whim; I've even been sent to clean the dungeons, just as a way to spite me. I keep my head properly bowed, and my eyes to the floor.

But now I know the entire layout of the manor where we're being kept. I know all the exits. My downcast eyes remember everything. I know escape routes, entrances, where everything is being kept. They think me too stupid to remember passwords, and they say things in my presence that they really shouldn't.

It's amazing what people will say when they forget you're there.

I've fashioned myself, in their eyes, to be the perfect servant. I do as I'm told, when I'm told, without hesitation. They think me cowed.

But serving these decrepit, close-minded idiots is a small price to pay when you know that you will help bring an end to their cause.

I do justice in the name of Helga Hufflepuff. Intelligence and bravery are meaningless if you don't back it up with long, hard work. My bloody hands will aid in tearing down the very foundations of this lifestyle.

I have found the perfect escape route. Since I'm regularly hauled out of sleep to clean some invisible spot somewhere in the castle, I've also become acquainted with the regular cycles of the Death Eater Watch. It took me some time, but I finally memorised their routines and their paths. I even know who sneaks off, and to where, with whom. I found the perfect route through the grounds; I found their weak spot. My diligence has paid off. Weeks of working myself to the bone has finally paid off. We have a plan. 

I am a Hufflepuff. My name is Susan Bones, and I will work my way through this.

 

++++

I'm on patrol tonight on the ground floor. It's boring, and tedious, but I suppose it's necessary. I walk aimlessly back and forth, curtly greeting other Death Eaters as I stomp through the halls.

I'm not a pureblood, technically, but I have enough of it to make me seem as if I'm not a threat. What fools; I still have ambitions of my own. They think that because I'm ambitious, I automatically have some deep, burning desire to serve Voldemort. What a joke. I have plans for myself, and kissing the toe-nails of some paranoid freak with delusions of grandeur are definitely not in my life plans.

They trust me, though, because I grin like a vapid fool. I didn't squeak when they gave me the Dark Mark, and Voldemort never even tried to pry into my mind, thinking that he owned me. No one owns me but myself. What I do, I do for myself. I have no desire to live under someone else's thumb. The truly ambitious never do; we wish to be the masters of our own destiny.

I have aired my ambition to work in the Ministry enough times to give me credit, and truthfully, I do want to work there. I desire power. But I'd rather earn it on my own. I don't want to be beholden to anyone; I want to earn respect for my own work. It's much more satisfying that way. Having everything handed to you makes you dull. Look at half of the rich purebloods. There's satisfaction to be gained in earning something through your own work.

Salazar Slytherin would be delighted. Horrified, perhaps, that I'm aiding the cause of the "dirty-bloods", but delighted that I have used my ambitions and slyness to earn myself a place, in a rather honest fashion, through the ranks of the Light. My abilities, meagre as they may seem, were the final link to getting us out of here.

After all, bravery, intelligence, and hard work are all well and good, but you need a goal to achieve, else it will all fall to ashes. My dull footsteps will shatter the walls of this delusional philosophy of pureblood elitism.

The time has come. We've dwelled in the dark for far too long.

I am a Slytherin. My name is Millicent Bulstrode, and I will push my way through this.

++++

The light of the sickle moon shines wanly on the grounds of the headquarters of Dark Forces. In one corner, where the shrubs are overgrown and the trees grow tall and forbidding, the shadows of four girls slowly begin to creep through. Forcing their way through brambles and hedges, each girl carries something with her. 

One carries a bag full of gold and a fistful of wands. 

One carries a chart full of detailed, precise Arithmancy maps.

One carries the knowledge of the entire castle, dungeon to turret.

One carries the entire hierarchy of the castle's population. 

And by this time tomorrow, the prison-manor will be set ablaze, foundations shattered, walls crumpled, and falling into itself.

But tonight, they creep through the overgrown gardens, taking with them the future of the Dark. And bringing back hope to the Light.


End file.
